


Semblance of Togetherness

by Aphelyon



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: ? kinda, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Caring Hugh Culber, Coma, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Introspection, M/M, Sickfic, friends helping and comforting eachother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 22:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19935268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aphelyon/pseuds/Aphelyon
Summary: Moments before the U.S.S Discovery made its way through the wormhole to the future, Dr. Hugh Culber sent Paul Stamets into a medically induced coma to tend to his wounds sustained in battle, and heal him. On the other side, and once Paul has healed, Hugh tries to rouse him. But it seems that not all goes to plan in the future.





	Semblance of Togetherness

**Author's Note:**

> **Unauthorized copying of this work, any and all of my works, inclusive of writing and all artwork imagery of my creations, to any and all other sites is not permitted.**
> 
> Big, big thank you to @30MinuteLoop for Beta reading this little one.

Three days have passed since the the Discovery made its way through the wormhole, jumping through time itself on a scale that no one had ever thought possible.  
  
Two days have passed since Doctor Hugh Culber tried to wake up his patient, Paul Stamets, from a medically induced coma that he’d put him under four days ago. At the time he had promised Paul that everything would be okay, knowing that he would wake up and he would be right there for him, with him. 

But he didn’t wake up. 

Hugh has tried everything. Doctor Pollard and all the medical personnel have helped as well, but no one really knows what to do, or why he won’t wake up. As each hour passes, and turns into a new day, Hugh tries not to slip into despair. After all that they’ve been through, was this going to be their life now? 

He doesn’t regret sacrificing everything to come along to the future to be with Paul - to have a chance at being with Paul. What he regrets is that only in their very final moments, before Paul slipped away into a deep coma, had Hugh told him what Paul _truly_ meant to him: that _he_ was his family, _he was his home_.  
  
Hugh exhales shakily, barely containing the raw - and still new - flood of emotions that washes over him. Seeking out whatever small amount of comfort he can gain from the feel of Paul’s skin against his. He reaches out to his hand, lying perfectly motionless on the bed, and clutches it tight - perhaps a little too tight.  
  
Why. _Why_ . Why had he waited to tell him all this? Why had it taken him so long to figure it out and piece together exactly what Paul meant to him? Why did it have to be at the last possible moment? Why did Paul have to be dying in his arms when he professed this to him? Why couldn’t he just wake up? _Why?_  
  
The fucking tardigrade DNA, probably. No one knows for sure how it can, does and will affect him differently in any kind of situation. Everything is unknown medical territory. That uncertainty is frightening.  
  
Tears were welling in his eyes now, distorting his vision as he looked over Paul, and his throat hurt _so much_ he wanted to scream, and scream, and scream in attempt to wake up Paul, if that’s what it would take. It’s futile, he knows this. So he leans down and rests himself against Paul’s chest, holding onto his hand and quietly sobbing into his gently rising and falling chest instead.  
  
“ _Hugh_ .”  
  
The kindest, most gentle voice eased its way through his haze of sorrow. A hand gently laid on his shoulder. With a force of will, he cracks his eyes open, expecting them to be assaulted by the harsh, bright lights within Medical - but they weren’t. The lights were dim, a gentle red tinted glow to ease the strain on patients’ eyes and trick their minds into falling into a natural sleep. He had clearly fallen asleep while laying with Paul. Casting his eyes down without acknowledging the voice that had woken him, he watches his fingers trace over the hand he was still gently holding.  
  
“Hugh.” She repeated, and squeezes his shoulder with no real force at all. “It’s late, you should go eat something. Please go eat something. I’m on shift now, I’ll watch over Paul, I promise.”  
  
It takes everything he has to tear himself away from his sanctuary. He had hoped that Paul would have just woken up on his own while he had been asleep, but today wasn’t the day for medical miracles.  
  
He licks his dry lips, nods his heavy head. “Thanks, Tracy,” he croaks out as he rubs his puffy eyes.   
  
“Go, please. Otherwise you’ll wither away to nothing, and Paul won’t even recognise your skinny-ass when he wakes up.”  
  
It was a joke, he knows it’s a joke. But it falls so heavily and wrong around him, only making his heart sink further. He has to actively try to not let his mind go down tangents of possibilities where Paul might not even know him _at all_ when he wakes up. Would he recognise him, even if he were an old man by then? He screws up his face, sucking in a breath, trying to contain the catastrophising. It probably looks like the world's worst smile to Tracy.  
  
“I’m sorry, Hugh, I just want you to look after yourself. It’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.”  
  
“Will it?” Both of them should know better about making promises that might never come true.  
  
“You two are the most stubborn men I know,” she says, nudging him, “ _especially_ when it comes to each other. He’ll pull through. Give it time, Hugh. It’s all any of us have anymore.”  
  
They smile sadly at each-other. This, at the very least, is the universal truth between all remaining personnel onboard. Time, hope and each other are all that they have.  
  
This, too, is true of Paul and himself.  
  
So without another word to each other, he gets up from his stool by Paul’s bed, achy and sore from being in that position too long, and makes his way through the quiet corridors towards the mess hall.  


  
*

The mess hall is completely empty. It doesn’t help for the thoughts echoing around his head. 

His voice seems too loud to him when he orders his meal from the replicators. He contemplates ordering a cafecito, but it’s what? Eight hours until he’s on shift again? Of which he knows he’ll spend as much time as possible with Paul before going back to his quarters to sleep. 

Now, more than ever, his quarters feel cold and so, so empty: his self imposed isolation from Paul coming to bite him in the ass. Some days as he walked past their old shared quarters, he thought to try opening the door, slip inside and curl himself up on the bed they once shared - hoping that he could at least be comforted by enveloping himself in the smell of Paul. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to try. 

Was this what it was like when he died, and Paul had to face their quarters alone? No, Paul wasn’t dead, that was a blessing he had to remind himself to keep that dread at bay - yet Hugh felt more alone than before. If he could sleep in Medical with Paul, he probably would. Idly, he wonders if he could get away with it. Which protocols are arbitrary enough to let slide now that they’re a thousand years in the future with no connection to the organisation that insisted on them in the first place? 

“Commander?” The nervous softly spoken voice breaks him out of his spiralling thoughts. Looking up to his saviour, Tilly, standing there with her hair undone, spilling wildly over her shoulders like a big comforting blanket. Her uniform is half undone as if she just got off shift and she wears a kind, hopeful smile. The tray heavy with food shakes a little in her grip. 

She could sit anywhere else in this empty room, but Hugh doesn’t want her to. It would be nice to share this empty space with a familiar and comfortable presence. 

He doesn’t have the strength in him to get up and offer it formally, so instead he just motions to offer her the empty seat opposite of him. He doesn’t even have the strength to say it out loud, so he doesn’t.  
  
“Working late?” She chimes up, unpacking the contents of her tray and sprawling them out in front of her.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“And you?” He waved his fork over her half undone uniform.  
  
“No,” She frowns slightly, casting her eyes down, stabbing her fork into some roasted tomatoes. The juices spurt violently outwards from the force they’re hit with, spurting over the table and right onto Hugh’s less-than-pristine uniform. “Oh, my god, Commander, I’m so sorry! Sir!”  
  
She almost jumps out of her chair, frantically scrabbling for some napkins.  
  
“It’s ok, don’t worry.” He laughs, he’s laughing for the first time in…. Oh, he can’t even remember. The absurdity of how strongly Ensign Tilly reacted to spoiling a more senior officer’s uniform with tomato guts and the absurdity of tomato guts itself, being the least worrying kind of guts his uniform was used to being spoiled by, did not merit this kind of reaction. He can only laugh at it.  
  
“Thank you.” He takes the napkin she’s holding out with a mortified expression. Although what he’s really thanking her for is the laughs, and whether or not she realises that he can’t be sure.

“I’m sorry.” she says softly while he dabs the tomato off his uniform. She sits back down and ducks her head before he can say anything back.  
  
A silence falls over them as they both slowly pick at their meals and it is neither entirely uncomfortable, nor comfortable. It simply is.

“Tilly?”  
  
“Huh?” She looks up at him, almost comically startled. Perhaps she’s not used to him addressing her so casually. He can’t be certain but it almost makes him smile again.  
  
“...Thank you for being there for Paul, when I died and… you know...” For some reason, talking about how he had treated Paul after his resurrection was harder than talking about the fact he was murdered. “..for when I should have been there for Paul, too.”  
  
“Sir -” she begins.  
  
“Hugh, please.” Formalities seem so harsh when paired with all of these personal vulnerabilities right now.  
  
“Oh. Okay, Hugh. Well, um, Hugh, you see… He needed to be there for you, too, and you both ...well… You weren’t _seeing - really seeing -_ each other. Please don’t blame yourself, I know he wouldn’t want that.” The way she emphasised those last words was confirmation enough that they had spoken about things. He couldn’t help himself.  
  
“Did he think that I hated him? That I no longer loved him?” His voice strains to stay stable, but it’s thick and mottled with the guilt and hurt. He certainly acted like he didn’t love him. He couldn't blame Paul for thinking these awful things. Hindsight is truly awful, sometimes.  
  
“Um, with respect, sir, uh - Hugh, I don’t think I can really be the one who can answer that. You have to ask him yourself, when he wakes up.” She reaches across the table and places her hand over his, squeezing resolutely. Her smile is thin, a little forced, but her eyes spill over with love and a hope that he’s scared to feel for himself. As he swallows back the rising lump forming in his throat, he can recognise how her kindness would have helped Paul through all those times that he couldn't be there for him. “He will wake up.”

Tilly is always so kind to others, even when she is hurting so much herself. No doubt it was part of the reason why she was here so late still dressed in the uniform, he now realises, she should have forgone hours ago. Instead she came here expecting to eat alone, like he had.  
  
“Michael?”  
  
Her smile falters a little as she holds onto Hugh’s hand a little tighter.  
  
“No sign of her yet. We’re looking... we’re looking. I wish I could talk to Stamets, he always knows what to do. Well, so does Michael, but she’s not here and that’s the problem and -”  
  
“We’ll find her,” he interrupts her rambling kindly, returning her sentiment of hope, and squeezes her hand reassuringly. He hopes that he’s more successful in reassuring her than she had been for him.  
  
“Will we? The universe is a big place, _time_ is a big place. We don’t know where _or when_ she is! And, and, Stamets is the only one who can perceive time differently than all of us, or… or.. I don’t know.”  
  
“All we can do is keep searching. After all, she would never give up on any of us.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. You’re right.”  


Later that night, after he had spent the rest of his down-time by Pauls side - and Pollard had to eventually usher him out to go to his own bed and sleep - he takes a moment longer than usual to linger outside of the door of their old quarters. He’s compelled to go in. He’s resistant, too. With a heavy heart, and feet that drag like lead, he tears himself away and goes to sleep in his own barren quarters. It’s just a bed, not a home, but their old quarters would be no more of a home than this was. His true home was asleep on a bed in Medical. 

He didn’t even notice the dampness of the fabric of the pillow as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

This becomes his routine for the next few weeks. Waking, checking in on Paul, going to the gym quickly before his shift starts, staying back after it ends to be with Paul, eating dinner with Tilly or Bryce or Gen, then back to Paul… And eventually kicked out by Pollard to go to sleep. Repeat.

By the time the second week rolled around, Captain Saru by request of Doctor Pollard, took him aside to remind him of the importance of balancing looking after his patient, and physically and mentally looking after himself, too. It was important he spends some time away from Medical. They all need to be at their best in these unfamiliar times and unfamiliar place. It’s true, of course, so he agreed to commit himself to activities outside of Medical. Sparring every second day, leading a circuit training group every other day, and organising and running the ship marathon on the weekends. It was only a couple hours’ commitment for each day, but it dragged him out of wallowing by Paul's side. 

  
  


When Hugh comes in for his shift one morning, he notices that Paul has been moved - even the bed is different. It’s one of their wider beds, making Paul look so much smaller laying on top of it.  
  
He pushes down any ray of hope that Paul might have woken up, trusting that he would have been contacted if he had, and seeks answers from Pollard. She sits in the small triage office, likely working through the changeover data for the next shift. 

He must have looked hopeful, and probably a little brittle when he walked in, so before he could ask, she spoke first. 

“No, he didn’t.” She was always forthright and truthful with him, but her words still stung his hopeful heart. “We just moved him to a bigger bed so you two can be more comfortable.”

“We?”

“Mhm, the CMO and I.” She pulled the data off the screen and down into the handheld PADD, getting up and handing it over to him. “You’re doing a double today?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m covering for Lieutenant Chiefowitz - they’re needed in Engineering today.”  
  
“Alright. It’s likely I’ll see you at the changeover for the start of my shift, then.”

*

By the time Hugh’s shift ended, and Pollard’s began, he had sterilised _all_ the equipment _three times_ . Organised the storage shelving _twice_ : first to ensure everything was indeed in alphabetical order, the second so that all the labels were facing the front. Other than one incident of a minor burn, there wasn’t a single patient who came into Medical that night. These intensely quiet days would ordinarily make a double shift drag, but now it just means that he has all the more time to care for Paul - the only resident patient within the facility.   
  
He cleans him, washes and brushes his hair - and dresses him in new, clean clothes. Tomorrow he will shave him, but not today. This evening he sits beside Paul’s bed, his head in his hands, watching and delighting in the way that his blond and greying stubble glitters in the bright lights of Medical.  
  
He doesn’t bother moving when Pollard walks in for her shift. “Busy day, I can see.” she remarks.  
  
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh, holding out the PADD - the change over data already completed hours ago. “Why did you change the bed? I can barely reach him from here,” Hugh sulks, laying his head in his arms as he leans against Paul’s new wide bed.  
  
“We didn’t get it for you to have extra moping room. Get in,” Pollard says dryly, if not a little impatiently.  
  
“That’s against protocol,” Hugh protests.  
  
“Hm, good thing he’s _my_ patient,” she says, wiggling the PADD. “Take off your jacket, at least. I’ll get you two a blanket.” 

He pulls himself up onto the bed, stripping his jacket off, down to his grey undershirt. He brushes back a stray lock of Paul’s hair that had dried oddly, making it unruly. He huffs out a small laugh thinking about how Paul would hate that, and how he would complain about it _all_ day. 

“I took the liberty of telling the others to have the night off and just be on call. So, it looks like it will just be you two tonight - if luck provides - and me, of course. Hope you don’t mind a third wheel.”   
  
“This really isn’t protocol,” he protests half-heartedly again, his conviction seriously faltering.

“Who is going to tell you off? _Starfleet_ ? Besides, the CMO suggested it. Something about staff mental wellbeing. They’ll make a compelling report, if it comes up.” Tracy wiggles the blanket in her outstretched hand, urging him to take it.  
  
He thanks her, taking the blanket and kicking off his boots. Tracy rolls her eyes, straightening them up, making a comment under her breath about doctors and unkempt boots, and walks away to leave them be. He loosens the fastenings on his pants, just for breathing room, and lays down next to Paul in the limited space left for him, draping the blanket around both of them.  
  
The comfort of Paul's physical presence down the entire length of his body washes away all the strain he has kept pent up these last few weeks, even just for this moment. He quickly falls asleep to the rhythm of Paul’s steady heart, and the gentleness of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

*

  
When he wakes, something is different, but not _wrong, just different._ He instantly feels a safety he hasn’t felt in the longest time. Warm, soft arms holding him securely around his shoulders and large, strong hands rubbing slow circles across his back. His heart swelling as he takes in the difference in how Paul is breathing, deep and full. Even his heart is beating stronger in his chest. Nowhere near as fast as Hugh’s is now racing.  
  
Part of him doesn’t want to move, lest it is a cruel trick of his mind. The other half of him is bursting to see life in those beautiful, soulful, blue eyes.  
  
When he looks up at Paul, he is not disappointed. There he is, gazing down at him through a veil of blond lashes, with the most adoring eyes and content smile. It’s too much, and his eyes respond by welling up, distorting his vision. Furiously he blinks them away, and brings his hand to rest against Paul’s rough, stubbly cheek.  
  
The most perfect thing is him, blissfully leaning into his hand, and kissing Hugh’s palm.  
  
Paul’s arms tighten around him, it feels so right to be firmly held in his lanky, yet strong arms. Laying together in quiet admiration of each other, with so many unspoken words between them, a thousand things more blooming to be asked at each moment. There were so many things they now had the chance to be able to say to one another.

“Where have you been?” It seems like the stupidest question to start with, to ask a man whose body has been right here before him this whole time. He reasons that there’s no telling where Paul’s mind has been all this time.  
  
“Wandering in mycelia.” This voice that he spoke in, was a voice only meant for him, reserved for their quietest moments between them. His smile, however, reminds him of the very first time Paul told him about traversing through the Network, and his heart can’t help but seize up a little in fear. It’s obvious in the way that Paul reaches out to gently touch his cheek that he can see this fear overcome him. “I had to find a friend, I had to know if she could help us. And she did.”

“...May? She’s still alive?”  
  
“Yes,” he nods, smiling. “Time works very differently in there” - they both know this - “but, she helped us find Michael and I couldn’t come home before I knew she was safe. Tracy knows, she’s relaying the message.” He pauses, stroking his thumb over Hugh’s cheek. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Hugh.”  
  
“You could have told me…” No, he couldn’t have. How would have he been able to slip so easily back into the network, safely?

“I’m home now,” Paul assured him. _Home, with you._  


// end

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you cried... I mean enjoyed! As always I love your thoughts and feedback, it's tremendously appreciated.
> 
> You can also come find me over at Aphelyons.tumblr.com - I post drawings of Culmets stuff I do there too.


End file.
